


Sentiment

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fake Character Death, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was prompted: "Sherlock returns after three years to find John has turned his attentions to his older brother, Mycroft."</p><p>Angsty one-sided Johnlock with Johncroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment

Sherlock has been reliably informed that a planned reunion would prove more romantic. He wants to look like he's actually putting effort in. He has no doubt John will be angry, but he'll also be impressed. John must have been dying of boredom with only people like Mycroft around him. John's thirst for adventure couldn't have just gone away like Sherlock had just gone away. No, it has to have stuck around.

Sherlock spies on him. He doesn't look bad, really. He's getting out more than he'd been when the grieving had first started. The lines on his face aren't as deep. He actually smiles. There's a strange moment where Sherlock feels his return may do nothing for John at all in terms of spirits, but he pushes the thought aside because it's stupid.

After all, what would John do without Sherlock? 

Besides smile at passersby and buy himself an ice-cream for the hell of it, anyway. 

John apparently feels it's okay to spend money on his whims now. He hadn't felt that way when Sherlock had left him. Something must have improved his self-worth. It's hard to say what that something is, but Sherlock has time to figure it out.

Sherlock follows John as far as the entrance to Mycroft's office. Yes, John will be dying for some excitement. Tomorrow will be the perfect day to reunite with his best friend.

Sherlock wraps his mind up in thoughts of how John needs him, how he'll care and how he'll cry. The taxi ride back to his hotel flies by. 

Sherlock sits and spends a few hours reviewing his notes. He makes sure his conclusions about his feelings toward John are as logical and as accessible to the average mind as possible. He's practically written a novel. He knows that it will take enough from them both just to catch up on what's been happening in their lives; the stickiness of the sentiment he's been obsessively compiling will have to wait until after all that. 

Sherlock can't help being excited, though. He's going to tell John how important he is. He has been imagining the way John's face will light up and the way he'll fit so nicely against his chest. His fantasy of the reunion has done more for his morale while fighting off Moriarty's men than any other fantasy has ever done for him.

He and John were made for each other. John will see it too; of course he will. He understands Sherlock's conclusions. He understands Sherlock's dreams.

Sherlock snuggles the jumper he'd nicked from John. It's ratty now, from overuse and exposure to the elements, and it only barely smells like John anymore, but it's much too important to let go of until John's with him again, close. 

Just one more day.

***

_ I just finished the case of my life. Meet me for Chinese. - SH _

***

John stands in the restaurant, staring at Sherlock from across the table. His hand quickly reaches out for Sherlock, and he runs it through Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock," he breathes. 

"John. Sit." Sherlock's smile is wide and open and he feels utterly free to announce his affections, so he just might go ahead, in a bit. 

"No. A moment." John's awe starts to turn. Oh no. Really? "You leave me all alone, and then I'm supposed to just want Chinese."

"Aren't you hungry?" Sherlock frowns in concern. 

"No, not exactly at the top of my mind right now." John huffs, turning away from Sherlock for a moment before facing him again. "I need to get some air. I'd almost hoped someone was playing a prank on me, but here you are."

"John," Sherlock says helplessly, watching as John makes his way out of the restaurant. He decides to wait and see if John will return. He picks at some rice, uninterested but needing to focus on something other than John's hasty exit because the exit had stung. 

When John does return, Sherlock looks up at him hopefully. John merely shakes his head and takes a seat. "Your treat," he says. "I do need a bite of something, now."

Of course. When one invites another to a date, it's only polite to pay.

"What was your plan? Was this it, just tell me to come and I'll come and it'll be like nothing changed, like I wasn't...." John takes a deep breath.

"I thought about you every day, John."

Sherlock looks much too earnest, so John scowls at his silverware until the waitress comes by to take his order.

"I did have more to my plan," Sherlock offers after John has ordered. 

"Is that right? Well, let's hear it." John meets his gaze, but his face is closed, pained. Sherlock hates that it's him John is reacting to, and nothing else.

"I thought we might unpack the things Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson kept from 221B for me, then head to my room at the hotel so I could show you interesting things about my big case."

The color has slowly drained from John's face.

"John?"

"How many people knew, but not me? Do I mean so little? Am I such an insignificant little speck in the world of The Great Sherlock Holmes that...." He sighs, lowers his head to stare at the edge of the table cloth. 

"No. You're not." 

"Spare me!" John says, whipping his head back up to look at Sherlock. "I don't need your platitudes about how I'm your only friend, not when M-Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson were in on everything. Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock, I...I cried into her shoulder like a stupid little...." John is suddenly burying his face in his hands. "She drove me to your grave, but it wasn't ever your grave, was it?" 

Sherlock's heart, something he's become very familiar with in the absence of John, is breaking. "John," he rasps. "Please."

"I put flowers there!" 

"John...."

"No, Sherlock, I spent good money and good _tears_ on a sham. But the lying is the worst bit. Did Lestrade know? Donovan? Even Anderson?"

"No, none of them, John. John, Mycroft was necessary, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson."

"Molly. Right. You insult her every day, and suddenly she's...." John sniffles slightly. "Alright. No, okay, that's understandable. She had to help you fake your...SHERLOCK, I FELT YOUR PULSE! IT WASN'T THERE!" John looks suddenly horrified, and, Sherlock notes, many of the other customers are looking horrified too.

Sherlock lowers his voice. "The old rubber ball trick. Please, know that...know that if I could have chosen who would know, it would have been you. Sod everyone else; they don't matter."

John sighs. He starts to eat when his food arrives, trying to ignore Sherlock's desperately searching gaze. 

"Let's skip seeing anyone and go straight to your room at the hotel," John finally says.

Sherlock ignores the strange flare of hope he feels at that. Well, alright, he tries to ignore it and finds he can't.

***

"I assume you had more words for me," Sherlock says a bit sadly, sinking down onto the bed, steepling his fingers.

"Brilliant deduction," John mutters. "So, how long did Mycroft know?"

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. "That old prat's given me more assistance than a man could want. I admit that he's been integral to the planning since we discussed how to deal with Moriarty when he was locked up." 

John starts to pace.

"He's my brother and he's just stupid, alright?" Sherlock says. "I wanted to bring you here to show you what I've discovered about myself."

John stops pacing. "What's that?" 

Sherlock lets his eyes follow the pattern of the old wallpaper. "My feelings for you. I'd hoped we could reconnect before I say this, but—"

"Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock looks at John's face again. John is looking away. He's staring at...he's staring at the jumper.

"My jumper," he says quietly, looking awed. "Sentiment?"

"Sentiment. Yes, yes, exactly!" Sherlock stretches out to grab his notes, handing them to John.

"Sherlock, no," John says, pushing the notes away.

"Oh, but you must. I want you to know how I feel about you." Sherlock is nearly bouncing with excitement. This is it; he's going to put all his cards on the table.

"Listen to me!" John says. 

Sherlock furrows his brow, but stops trying to press the stack of notes into John's hands. 

"Sherlock, I'm with Mycroft."

Sherlock's fingers twitch. He nearly drops the notes. He feels both nauseous and blind-sighted. "John, no. You're kidding with me. No. He never...he never said...."

"He never said anything to me either," John reminds Sherlock.

They look away from each other, the room seeming too small.

"I didn't ask after you. I figured he'd tell me if anything happened to you. I was busy with...notes," he says, and suddenly wants to see them all burn. He drops them onto the ground.

John reaches for the jumper, studying it. "Oh Sherlock," he says, and he has such tenderness in his eyes. He's so _sorry_.

Sherlock's face heats up. "I get to keep that, actually. If I...if I break it off, you get it back. But if you do, that's mine."

"Sentiment," John says quietly. He carefully returns the jumper to its former position on the bed.

"No wonder you have more of an appreciation for food now," Sherlock says. To his credit, his voice doesn't crack with the feelings he's holding back from John.

To Sherlock's quiet horror, John just looks even sorrier.


End file.
